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There was a mighty rushing wind that whirled around our house this last week. The whoosh was ferocious as though a roaring lion were breathing upon our hillside at the base of Mount Diablo. I thought how nature was not always gentle, kind, and caring about humanity but ran on a course of its own. Our house was in the middle of that course, it seemed. Would we be blown into the sea?

I thought of Pentecost and the descent of the Holy Spirit upon the disciples, like a mighty wind.

Hurricanes and tornadoes must sound like that. It’s nature beyond our control, and that which we cannot control is scary.

I thought too how God’s anger could be like that wind – his anger at our slaughter of the unborn at the whim of convenience, our demand for control of events, bodies, time, future.

And yet we have little control at the end of the day, each day, when the sun sets and darkness falls, and we are dependent upon something called the grid for light. We stack candles and matches in closets and drawers and hoard batteries to feed flashlights. Our phones go dead. Electric wires atop poles running through the hills crash into dry grass and forest, setting them ablaze, turning wind into fire (Big Sur fire still burning). We have little control.

And yet, what we do have control over, or at least bits of control, we are responsible for. We have control over what we say and do to a limited degree. We have control over our loves and hates. We have control over our vote, who we desire to represent us in these United States. We have control over law and order, or at least we can control our own support or lack thereof. 

With control comes responsibility. With responsibility comes guilt. With guilt comes the anger of God.

I believe it was Victor Davis Hanson who wrote (probably in his recent excellent book The Dying Citizen) that with false victimhood (and who is not a victim today?) comes denial of responsibility. Guilt is washed away when you are a victim, or at least guilt is explained or excused.

I knew a priest some years ago who was a professional victim. I noticed it right away, for he tended to whine and bemoan his difficult childhood, so I proceeded warily. For blaming others for your sins, either directly or indirectly, is a dangerous game to play. When he was finally exposed as a serial liar and sexual predator, I thought back to the times he may have been lying about common friends, slandering them, to make him look good in a bid for our sympathy. But he was convincing and we credulous. We wanted to believe him. In hindsight, I should have seen it all coming, but didn’t, and was blindsided by the turn of events soon to come that would expose him. Today, we have no idea what was true and what was false in our conversations. And we have learned that we too were slandered by him in handwringing conversations with others. He played us all and, I believe, still does.

It is tempting to play the victim, for it smooths the rough edges of our soul, hides the guilt. It is a powerful tool.

Many women see themselves as victims when they become pregnant. They think they have a right to end this tiny miracle of a life just beginning. But they don’t have this right, and they have fallen into the blame game of victimhood.

No one has the right to take another person’s life, let alone murder an innocent person, a baby, born or unborn.

Many brave souls marched in the cold this weekend as they have annually, announcing their commitment to these innocent children. “Stop the killing,” they cry, hoping the court will overturn Roe v. Wade and abortion on demand. America has the stain of sixty-two million abortions in the last fifty years, three generations gone with the flash of a blade. For this to be legal, written into law, is a horrendous shame. It ranks of… evil.

God is angry and should be. Our God is a God of life. He created those innocent ones. He feels the blade with them. He weeps on their cross.

I thought about this, this morning in the Berkeley chapel, that our God is a God of Life. We celebrated the first miracle of Christ, the turning of water into wine at a wedding feast in Cana in Galilee. The simplicity and need of the act touches me. Had Mary seen him do these things before? She says to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you to do.” She says to her son, “They have no more wine.” And so Our Lord remedies the situation, turning 150 gallon vats of water into “the best wine,” as the master of the feast says later.

It is a homely miracle, a sort of kitchen miracle. He did not save lives or stop a ship from sinking or walk on the water, not yet. He supplies wine when it runs out. He does so at a wedding feast, a sacramental celebration, and so celebrates marriage itself.

It reminds me how our God is a God of seemingly small things, not only big things. We are small things. Babies are small things. Our God is a God who knows when a sparrow falls. As my bishop of blessed memory said, “Nothing is wasted.” In God’s economy, everything we do and think and believe is known by him, marked by him. He knows the hairs on our head, or in my case, lack of hairs on my head. I remember this glorious smallness when I think I am not good enough, not loving enough, not successful enough, when publishers turn me down with form letters saying “It doesn’t work for us.” I remember that “nothing is wasted, nothing is lost.”

And so we clean out our hearts of every little grimy sin we see, so that we can receive absolution, become clean enough to receive him, the Real Presence of Christ into our bodies.

The Cana miracle reflects the living God of all creation, for to turn one substance into another is no small thing, yet is a small thing for him. He charges matter with life, with atoms forming substance. We call this a sacrament and, in the sacrament of the Eucharist atoms of bread and wine become charged with his life. They become “the real substance of things unseen.”

Of these matters we can only say they are a mystery. We are too small to understand fully. But we know enough to say these matters are true, real, and miraculous everyday occurrences.

The natural world breathes the breath of God upon us. We are his children, the work of his hands. He knew us in the womb; he knew us when we breathed our first breath and took our first steps. Nothing is lost; nothing wasted. And for this we celebrate in a chapel on a windy morning in Berkeley. We celebrate life itself, for this life conquers death.

A friend entered Paradise last night. His soul left his weak mortal flesh to rise to Paradise. He was and is a big hearted man, a loving man, a man of faith and purpose. His good humor humored us all, those who worked with him to witness to Christ through the St. Joseph of Arimathea Foundation in Berkeley. Our Board meetings have been virtual the last few years, so we were denied his physical presence and yet he was there on the screen. He was a layman, a businessman, a husband and father, and a faithful (founding) member of St. Thomas’ Anglican Church in San Francisco. He helped found our St. Ann Chapel at Stanford as well.

He loved life and he loved people. We loved him for he always brought a smile that birthed our own smiles. We felt his love.

Where is he now?

I do not know exactly the time sequences, the order of events, in Paradise, for the simple reason we are outside of time, and as creatures bound in earthly time, we cannot envision Eternity. And yet, as my theological grandson mentioned at Christmas, we sleep until the Second Coming of Christ to Earth and the advent of the New Jerusalem. This New Heaven and Earth will be our home and we shall be given our perfected bodies. Wrongs will be righted, paths will be straightened, and Christ shall wipe all tears from our eyes. We shall be reunited with those who have journeyed before us, at least those who desire to be in Paradise, those who believe, those who claim Christ as their savior and redeemer.

We cannot judge how others are judged by our Heavenly Father. We can only look into our own hearts, scrub them clean, repent, accept forgiveness, and live the life we are meant to live. I have many family and friends who do not believe in the promises and glory of Christ. Some have left this Earth and this Time we are bound by. Some are still living in their mortal flesh, creating their own meaning day to day. All I can do is pray for them, that they will have a vision of God as I have.

Prayer, I have found, opens a door to Christ. Prayer is a portal between Heaven and Earth. I have long considered the Eucharist to be a portal to Heaven, for we are fed by the Real Presence of Christ. So also, I have come to see, is prayer, especially prayer alongside others in worship. For after all, the Eucharist is the great prayer instituted by Jesus Christ himself at the Last Supper. Many of the hymns we sing are prayers, song prayers addressed directly to God. Our voices raised in such poetic melody open doors to Heaven.

And so this morning as I listened to the Gospel appointed for today, the baptism of Jesus by John, the dove descending, the voice from Heaven saying, “This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased,” I thought how my friend entered Eternity and embarked upon this great journey on the eve of the Second Sunday after Epiphany, the eve of the Sunday we celebrate the Baptism of Christ.

Our preacher reminded us that all baptisms recall our own baptisms, recall the promises made and gifts of grace given in return. We recall our own washing away of sin by water and the Holy Spirit, our own rebirth. For Christ said we must be reborn spiritually to enter the Kingdom of God. And we have been reborn in baptism.

My friend entered Heaven. He was redeemed and reborn, born into the new life of Christ, born into the Kingdom of God. He has been met by Our Lord himself and greeted with the words, “Well done, good and faithful servant! Enter into the joy of your Lord.”

Until we meet again in the New Jerusalem, we will miss you, dear friend.

Deo Gratias.

A new year has been marked in the calendars of mankind. Time has been broken into pieces so that we can organize it to form associations with one another through work, play, sickness, health. We set aside times in the future where we promise to be, where we promise to give of our time for that moment, hour, day.

Time has become slippery during the last two years of our lives. It has slipped and slid and merged into one rolling river, the tide pulling us along to some end we do not see. Our children reflect our own confusion over the chaos of our lives, the meaningless moments of waiting, masking, meeting mandates and following confusing rules that seem to end in a dead-end, all the while contradicting one another.

Should we make resolutions in this new year of time? Or is it a futile enterprise?

In these years of darkness, confusion, crime, and chaos, we reach for the light. If we can shine more light upon the swift current, the fast moving river that carries us into the future, then we will understand better who and what we are, who and what we have become. We will understand better and with this understanding we will see meaning and purpose to it all.

Reflecting on this morning in our Berkeley chapel, I sense that Christians are given a gift that others must create or do without. Christians are given a map of the rivers running through time. We are told which ones are good and which ones are evil. We are warned of the rapids coming around the bend and what we should do to prepare. We are warned of waterfalls and cliffs that plunge into the dark abyss.

In the last century, modernity declared that God is dead, a fiction of our (deplorable) imagination. With this denunciation and burial, modernity gazes into the abyss, the endless endings, the fearsome silence, the falling through the sky into the depths of nothingness.

I knew this meaninglessness once as a young college student listening to lectures on the insanity of Christian belief and the order to embrace existentialism. A friend showed me another way. I began to pray for faith. I began to read apologetics (C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity) with an open mind and heart, searching for reason to believe, but expecting none. Prayer opened my mind and heart, for I had made that first step, not a leap, but a baby step, my arm reaching out, my hand waiting for God to clasp it, waiting for God to see me and catch my freefalling fall.

St. Luke tells of a woman who touched the hem of the robe of Jesus. She wanted to be made whole. She reached out, hoping, praying. I reached out too. I wanted to be made whole too, although I didn’t realize it yet.

When we reach for Jesus he reaches for us. But we must want him to. And to want his touch we must open ourselves, bare ourselves, burn away all pride and control. For pride and control are walls that divide us not only from others, but divide us from God.

I have wondered over the last year, how easy it has become for many public figures to lie about matters of life and death for mankind, the future of freedom and democracy. My bishop of blessed memory often said he couldn’t lie because he wasn’t smart enough to keep track of the lies. Perhaps this is what we are seeing in the public square today – men and women who come to believe their lies, for the narrative they create must continue or be washed clean, like erasing letters on a chalk board. One lie begets another and another and another, covering tracks and making falsehoods appear to be true. The narrative is carried whole from one institution to another, from one network to another, from one citizen to another.

I have found that when I go to church I am more likely to scrub my conscience and face God with abandon. Worship does this, allows us to experience God, the God of Abraham, Moses, and Elijah, the God of kings and prophets, the God who became one of us, robed in flesh, named Jesus, the God that offered himself to me and for me, to die a painful death upon a cross on a hill outside Jerusalem, the God who rose from the dead for me, so that my emptiness could be filled forever, my cup running over with goodness and mercy.

And so I sing with the others in the chapel to the sound of the thundering organ. As I sing, I lay my heart and soul bare, open to the miracles of the morning. And there are always miracles, too numerous to count.

It all began with an unlikely step of faith, a little baby step, a step I didn’t think would make any difference. And yet, one step led to another that led to another, so that my own narrative, my journey on this river of life, is full of joy.

And it gets better each year, this amazing journey. At the age of seventy-four, I have no regrets that I chose this river. For the Church has been my ark, and we have sailed together, I in her womb of life with those who travel with me. We are the family of God, precious in his sight. We are his bride.

And so, as I embark on this year 2022, I watch and wait and see what Christ has prepared for me, for his people, for his bride the Church. The watching opens my eyes so I can see better, and I find I am in a pool of heavenly light. The waiting opens my heart so I can love better, and I find I have dear brothers and sisters all about me.

I pray for those caught in the darkness of lies, for it is a deep and fathomless abyss, a hope-less narrative. The remedy is to take that small step toward the light of truth, to say yes to God. The remedy is to be open to Christ working his will among his people. This is a narrative of love, of epiphany, of astounding joy.

I have always enjoyed the twelve days of Christmas, Christmastide, stretching from Christmas Day, December 25, to Epiphany, January 6, pivoting upon our old year ending and new one beginning.

In spite of the exaggerated account of wild protestors storming the U.S. capitol on January 6, the day continues to shine light upon all the world. The wise men from the East have traveled far, just as you and I have traveled far, to worship the Son of God born to mankind on Earth.

For we have traveled from our own births, to be reborn again and again, Eucharist after Eucharist. For when we meet Christ in the liturgy of bread and wine we clean out our hearts to prepare the way just as John the Baptist did in the wilderness, crying “Repent, repent, prepare ye the way of the Lord. Repent, repent… make his paths straight.”

Much has been made of the trespassers in Washington D.C. on this fateful day, the day that they protested the election. They are labeled insurrectionists. And yet, they too, were shining a light upon what happened in the early weeks of November 2020, at least until some were urged to enter the hallowed halls of Congress, by, it appears, federal agents who have since been identified on camera footage as well as police who opened the doors.

Epiphanies are sudden realizations of truth. Characters in novels have epiphanies, moments when they are no longer blind, but can now see, can recognize what is real and what is false. The epiphanies are often plot turning points, deepening character and ennobling those who now have vision restored.

The Feast of the Epiphany is no less. It is a celebration not only of gift giving by three kings from afar to the newborn king and the recognition of his kingship, but also a celebration of the greater world seeing too, for when these three travelers fall on their knees in worship, all the peoples, races, genders, classes, nations, recognize the significance of this moment in the history of mankind.

The immortal has become mortal, and in so doing, has become God with us, Emmanuel, God within us. We need only have eyes to see. We need only have faith to recognize. We need only believe in Jesus Christ – his promises and his palaces – to become immortal as well.

His was the light of the world, and the world knew him not. But to those who received him gave he power to become sons of God.

And so we travel through the twelve days of Christmas, celebrating saints and holy names and light shining upon the world. Yesterday we celebrated his naming in the temple. It is a holy name, Jesus, our preacher reminded us today. It is a name never to be taken in vain, but to treasure and hold close to the heart. He is named and from this moment the name of Jesus will demand every head to bow, every knee to bend. At the name of Jesus we see his light, as though a beam shines into our souls. We can do no less than bow and bend. We are thankful to be able to see.

Christians become epiphanies to others. They shine light so that others may see. They love so that others may love the source of all love, the source of all light and life.

We move through Christmastide to January 6 and the light that opened the doors of Heaven to all the world. No longer is the messiah only for a chosen people. He is born into our darkness but becomes the light that will shine, illuminating truth in a world of lies.

It seems to me the protestors (for the most part) last January 6 wanted to shine a light on the election of November. It is wrong to trespass and wrong to fight the police, and this is true at all times in all situations. But I believe their intentions were ingenuous, real, and peaceful. As we know from the riots of the summer of 2020, protests can be infiltrated and can be far more violent and destructive than intended.

The true light of the world is the Prince of Peace. He shines a light into our hearts so that we can see our wrongdoings and confess and repent. We then can approach the altar and receive him into ourselves, our souls and bodies.

LIGHTEN our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by
thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers
of this night; for the love of thy only Son, our Saviour,
Jesus Christ. Amen. 

Evening Prayer, BCP 1928

I’m not sure when the momentary recognition came. Was it opening the front door to family, welcoming them in from the rain, taking their coats and greeting them with “Merry Christmas”? Or perhaps it was when I took a photo of them sitting alongside one another, chatting and laughing, creating a sweet hum in the room? Or when we all posed in front of the tree for another photo, staged with a tripod and timer and me running into the group to edge in before the camera clicked?

In our house there was an absence of young children this year, and hence the presence of the young adults, the parents, and the grandparents (my husband and I)). It was quieter, for we didn’t need to orchestrate present-presenting by an older child with a Santa hat and watch the tumult as they ripped and peeked and shook the boxes and finally gasped pleasure or seeming pleasure or, in the event of a disastrous choice, dismay and disappointment.

I’m not sure when the moment came, when I began to recognize the gift that was peculiarly mine, but I think it was in the kitchen when two of our young adult grandchildren helped me with dinner preparations. We began chatting theology, of all things. The granddaughter, age twenty-three, was a newly converted Roman Catholic, living in Seattle, teaching children in a Christian preschool. The grandson, age twenty, was a fervent Orthodox Presbyterian, studying to become a pastor. I stood in the middle, the Anglican, the “via media,” and tried to referee flying missiles of absolute belief tossed back and forth, sola scriptura versus authority of Church and Tradition; errancy and inerrancy; translation and human fallibility. When it got a little heated, I would squeeze in a word or two, “but we all believe in the creeds, right? The Nicene? Even the more general Apostles Creed?” which would produce general nodding for a minute, and then they were off again…

I thought then, standing in the kitchen, trying to remember I needed to serve dinner, that this is my gift from God this Christmas, that two of my grandchildren are so committed to Christ that they are dueling theology in my presence (how wonderful!) in my kitchen, while stirring gravy and carrying turkey and mashed potatoes to the table. Their hearts had been open at the right time in their teen years – as had happened to me at age twenty (fifty-four years ago!) – and the Holy Spirit had entered the open doors to stir them up with Life itself. I was thankful they experienced the joy of Our Lord, as I do.

That was yesterday. But driving to our Berkeley chapel this morning in the rain, I rethought my gift. With pleasure, I listened to my memory of the moment, their animated faces, their deep convictions, their lived-out Christianity, their epiphanies, their discoveries. And as I listened to my interior musings, I realized this was not the gift after all.

The gift after all was Christmas, Christmas itself. Christ himself. God gave me – gave each one of us – Jesus, his son, a baby born to a mother who said yes, and a father who said yes too, into an impoverished and persecuted minority in an arid and dangerous land. The gift was – and is, and continues to be – nothing less than the Son of God, the redeemer of the world, the savior of mankind. He knocks on the door of my heart and I open the door and welcome him in from the cold and rain, bid him enter my soul. He is my Christmas present, ever-present, the Real Presence consumed in this morning’s Eucharist.

Christmas is a time when so many gifts – epiphanies, as it were – are showered upon us. We need only listen, watch, and pray, to be ready for Christmas Day. As I said in a poem long ago, “We need to be ready for Christmas Day, when God Himself came down to earth/ To love us, save us, with His birth.” Our open hearts form a garland of light that decorates the time, the Advent time of watching and waiting, the Christmas time of celebrating and proclaiming, the Christmastide time of reflecting and understanding what it all means.

There are those in our current time, a tumultuous and arid time to be sure, who think Christ is calling his sheep in to the safety of his fold. He is knocking on doors of hearts one at a time, before it is too late. He is offering himself one more time, the gift of life, of salvation. Some will not hear the knock for want of listening and growing deafness; some will hear the knock, open the door, only to close it upon the stranger before them or before the empty dark; some will hear the knock, open the door, and welcome the Son of God into their heart’s home.

Christmas is a time of giving. We give to one another our time, our talent, and the trinkets we think will bring them joy. But in the giving we tell a story of greater giving, cosmic giving, the gift of Eternity. In the giving we tell the story of Bethlehem again and again, year after year, so that those we love will hear the knock, open the door, and welcome Christ into their hearts to change them forever into sons and daughters of the Almighty God.

Merry Christmas!

I love our traditional Anglican (Elizabethan) liturgy, a true artform, but particularly appreciate the processionals and recessionals experienced at grand moments in our church’s history. Yesterday was such a day, a day of ordinations to the priesthood, a day when clergy from all parts of the Northern California assembled at St. Peter’s Anglican Church in Oakland. In robes of red and gold and white, these clergy entered the nave of the church, processed up the central aisle, stepping grandly on the crimson carpet, up the steps to the chancel and the high altar. We all sang hymn #220,

“God of the prophets, bless the prophets’ sons; Elijah’s mantle o’er Elisha cast: Each age its solemn task may claim but once; Make each one nobler, stronger than the last.”

Standing in the pews and turning toward the open doors that welcomed the procession, we wove our voices together as one into this sacred event, the ordination of two deacons who had humbly served our parishes for many years. We were all announcing in this form of ritual theater, that a great event was to happen soon. The Holy Spirit was to come upon these men as they made their vows before their bishop. These moments often bring to mind how the Church speaks to us through art – through visual images, through poetic song, through the acting out of these immensely important moments.

The seven sacraments of the Church – Baptism, Confirmation, Eucharist, Penance, Marriage, Anointing of the Sick, and Holy Orders – are these important moments in our lives. Therefore they are illumined by the dance of ritual, the steps we have learned through the centuries that create an artful rendering of the moment. Some sacraments are shared with others, but some also are more private, such as penance and anointing.

Holy Orders is the sacrament of ordination, witnessed yesterday at St. Peter’s.

In civic life we see the use of these forms in parades and patriotic ceremonies that bring the community of citizens together. Religious life does the same, with perhaps greater grandeur, providing a place in which we can join together to share the glory of God’s action in the sacrament celebrated.

Ritual allows many to become one. We all know the words and the responses. We know the familiar hymns. We know the creeds. We know when to kneel, to genuflect, to make the Sign of the Cross. This formal structure allows us to speak and sing with one voice, many bodies becoming one. We are a chorus, not unlike the classical Greek chorus.

The beauty of the morning – cold and windy here in the Bay Area – entered our souls. The sights and sounds lingered in our ears and memories. The motions of our bodies centered our hearts upon the actions before us. All of the rituals allowed us to soar together, a congregation of many races, skins, genders, and generations. We were one.

And the two men who lay prostrate before the altar, face down, arms stretched out in the shape of a cross – these ordinands – felt the power of the Holy Spirit descend upon them, as it descended upon us too, like Pentecost. We supported these men in this great offering of themselves. We, the Christian people in the pews, lifted our voices, holding these ordinands in a great wave of love, in offering to the sacred ministry.

And so we sang with one voice… “Come Holy Ghost…” (218). We renewed our own vows: “I bind unto myself today/ The strong Name of the Trinity, by invocation of the same,/ The three in One, and One in Three…”(268) We called upon the Holy Spirit and celebrated our commitment to Christ in the 6th verse of #268:

“Christ be with me, Christ within me, Christ behind me, Christ before me, Christ beside me, Christ to win me, Christ to comfort and restore me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ in quiet, Christ in danger, Christ in hearts of all that love me, Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.”

Christ unites us as one. The Holy Spirit moves among us, giving us tongues of Pentecostal fire. Division and rancor and distrust has been burned away.

And so we moved to the end of the liturgy, actually two liturgies, Holy Orders and Eucharist, to the Recessional, framing the grand event, the beginning and the ending, allowing us the deep satisfaction of having been a part of its creation, having loved and lived in the harmony of the morning. We sang with all our hearts as the clergy came down the steps of the chancel, entered the nave and moved along the red carpeted aisle to the open doors of the world outside:

“Ye holy  angels bright,/ Who wait at God’s right hand,/ Or through the realms of light/ Fly at your Lord’s command,/ Assist our song, for else the theme/ Too high doth seem for mortal tongue…” (600)

It was a holy time, a time in which Our Lord came among us, intersecting time with eternity. It was a time reflected in the intersection soon to come, our celebration of the Birth of Christ, the Son of God, who came among us two thousand years ago. And today, we can say for sure, he lives and comes among us still.

Deo Gratias. Come Lord Jesus, come.

https://www.cacvideo.com/franzlongsworth

An icy rain has dampened the Bay Area today, and occasionally I wondered at the hail upon the windshield driving home from church. Would there be snow on Angel Mountain, aka Mount Diablo? The summit is covered in a thick cloud now, but perhaps later a white blanket shall be seen.

The rain taps my window as Christ sometimes taps my soul. It is a light sound, a delicate touch, a steady caress. It is somehow comforting, both the natural water upon the glass and the sacred water quenching my soul.

In this time of waiting for the Christ Child to be born among us, we linger in this desert of Advent, thirsty for such sacred water, longing for baptism.

And so the green hills grow greener in this land of drought, of pandemic, of masking. They drink in the waters from heaven just as we open our lips to receive the Eucharist, our souls baptized anew. We too grow greener in the drought of our hearts. We are inoculated by Christ, no longer fearing fear, fearing faces, fearing touch, fearing laughter, fearing community. We no longer fear grace, the immense love of God stirring us to live fully as we are meant to live.

And so I am stirred by these waters of grace. I am touched and tapped by Christ, a touching and tapping that is ever present whether or not I am awake to it. He knocks at the door of my heart, just as the rain taps the earth. He embraces us with grace continually.

Advent 3 is called Gaudete (Rejoice) Sunday, named for the introit at the beginning of the Mass, “Rejoice in the Lord always…” It is also called Rose Sunday, a break from penitential purple, a day when the theme is Heaven rather than the earlier Death and Judgment, and the later theme, Hell. We light three candles on our wreathe, two purple and one pink.

Rose Sunday is a clearing of the skies, a break in the rain, as we glimpse Heaven through the parting clouds. Heaven is real, I am certain, for we sense it all the time as humans on this rolling planet we call Earth. We sense we were made for a better world, and this sense is often called our conscience. Our consciences must be educated, refined, and purified, but our sense of right and wrong, of judgment, has long been a pointer to the existence of God, a moral and loving Father-Creator who desires our good. Heaven is that good manifestly lived in Eternity and punctuated in our own time.

Worshiping together on a Sunday morning gives us a glimpse of that world awaiting us, where many of our loved ones have journeyed ahead of us. There are times when I think they are with me, watching and loving and encouraging, these friends and family so terribly missed. As Christians we are inheritors of this cloud of witnesses to the love of God. We walk among them, some angels, some souls waiting for the New Jerusalem, the Second Coming of Christ. As a friend recently said when asked if he believed in Heaven, “I’ll have a little nap, then enter Eternity.”

Advent is a little nap, a pause before the intersection of the eternal in time. We reflect and meditate upon this Christmas miracle, as we open ourselves to Christ within us.

We worship together on a Sunday, singing and celebrating the glory of Heaven. We say together the familiar words of the Mass, confessing and being absolved, praying for others, praying for our country, praying the consecration of the bread and wine to become the Real Presence of Christ. We stand before the altar, waiting to receive him. We are a row of penitents with the hope of Heaven, and soon we receive Heaven into our bodies. Our thirst is quenched by God.

We have been greened just as the California hills have been greened. The clouds part, and the love of God lights up the world just as the star lights up the stable, and eternity intersects time.

We rejoice always, singing and praising and giving thanks. For we have been given grace, grace to be what we are meant to be, to live and love as we are meant to live and love. We can claim with certainty in this time of Advent 2021, that, as our Bishop Morse of blessed memory often said, “All is grace.”

It is a curious thing when events collide, or fall into place, or compliment one another, or shed a light upon one another. I have been considering setting my next novel in the season of Advent. The downside is the season is usually too busy to attend to the manuscript first draft. But the remarkable upsides collided today, on this Second Sunday in Advent when the Church considers the final judgments, individual and general.

It is a subject most run away from, for good reason, for it is a painful thing to examine one’s life with the eye of our Creator. Scrubbing clean can sometimes hurt. And yet we are told there is a law, a standard, by which we shall be judged.

So what were the other events that collided with Judgment Day?

December 7 is the eightieth anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor. One of the themes in my novel-in-progress, Return to Angel Mountain, considers those who served in the Pacific Theater in World War II, with research based on my father’s experience in the navy on board the U.S.S. Phoenix, in thanksgiving or the service of these courageous sailors.

Another event this month is the Supreme Court case, Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization, which revisits the constitutionality of the Roe v. Wade decision (1972), opening the possibility that abortion law will be returned to the states.

And so, how will the Last Judgment judge this case? Especially considering the scientific knowledge we now have, unavailable in 1972, ultrasounds that show the child in the womb from conception. Will these children be allowed to live in the future?

I considered these things in our chapel today, as we heard Christ’s voice in the Gospel lesson:

“AND there shall be signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars; and upon the earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the waves roaring; men’s hearts failing them for fear, and for looking after those things which are coming on the earth: for the powers of heaven shall be shaken. And then shall they see the Son of man coming in a cloud with power and great glory. And when these things begin to come to pass, then look up, and lift up your heads; for your redemption draweth nigh….” Luke 21:25+, BCP, 93.

With redemption, comes judgment. With judgment, comes law. Do we have the right to take the life of an unborn child? Some ask, “What would Jesus do?” I believe he would choose life, the life he had created for a certain purpose, to live on this earth to his glory, each life loved to the death and into life again.

There are times when we must trust in God, his purposes, his love. There are times when we are pulled in two directions, or three or four. Many women know this, that they have been granted the greatest gift of all, to bear new human life within their bodies. Yet they also sometimes fear their own lives spinning out of control. Today we are told career comes first. We are told a house and financial stability comes first. We are told we have too many children already. We are scolded that the planet is too crowded. We are told to sleep with anyone and abort children conceived. Men are told they need not marry, need not commit to another. Why bother, the chorus screams, in this culture of self, of me, of un-love.

Sounds like the script from C.S. Lewis’ Screwtape Letters.

I considered today the drama of these times to come, described by Our Lord in the Gospel, and I considered the monumental events of the times today. I recalled those who fought for our peace and freedom, who gave their lives for us to live, breathe, form families, worship in church. They were brave, these men and women who fought for us, who answered the call to arms after Pearl Harbor. They kept us safe. They chose the right, to fight the wrong.

Judgment is all around us, birthed in every choice we make. To say our choices do not matter is to deny God’s everlasting love and lifegiving spirit among us. Every breath matters.

I recall my bishop, Bishop Morse, of blessed memory, often said that “nothing is wasted.” This can be gratifying when we do right with no one seeing, but it can be terrifying if we slip or slide or do wrong with no one seeing. And yet belief in a God who cares for us so much that he desires us to be good and to live with him forever in promised mansions, who loves us so he died for us and offers himself again and again to walk alongside, leading, guiding our every choice.

Bishop Morse also often said that when he finished his confession, he would complete the list with, “I have not loved enough.” For love is the root of all goodness, all right action, all righteousness. Love – sacrificial love – is the heart of the law.

And so as I considered Advent today, this season of silent valley fogs muffling our mornings in the East Bay, this season of cold winter, short days, and long nights, I thought of Angel Mountain where the hermit Abram lived, died, and lived again. I thought of the sound of silence, the quiet when words are no longer spoken, or songs no longer sung.

We are in the winter of our national life, here in America. We have seen our country fight again and again for right action, and the old demons rise again and again to try and trick our people into wrong action. Nothing changes on this earth, at least in terms of good and evil. But we can make a difference with every desire and deed that we own. For nothing is wasted.

Last Sunday we faced death and what that means. Today we face the judgment of our life. Next week we look to our final destination, Heaven, determined by our death and judgment. The last week, the fourth Sunday in this wintry Advent season, we look to Hell, the place of darkness, the place without God, without love, the abyss, full of meaningless chaos.

Advent is a season of preparation for the coming of the Son of God. We cannot prepare without being judged. We cannot be good without knowing what goodness is. We shall see one day what the highest court of America, of our land of freedom, will do with this monstrous evil that moves among us. How will they judge this thing that slithers and hisses in the dark? Will they say yes to life, no to murder? How will our nation respond to this judgment?

We await the coming of Christ in Bethlehem. We await the second coming of Christ in the last days. In this mean-time, we welcome the coming of Christ into our hearts to love us with his judgment and mercy, redeeming us out of our time and into his eternity by the wood of the Cross, by sacrificial love.

Come Lord Jesus, come.

The season of Advent has often been called Little Lent, for it is a penitential season, a time to examine our hearts and minds to see if we are ready to receive the Savior of the World among us.

Over the years I have used this time to memorize or re-memorize the Collect for today, an opening prayer that is repeated throughout Advent. And so as I listened to the prayer prayed before the altar this morning, collecting us together, the familiar words sang to me:

“Almighty God, give us grace that we may cast away the works of darkness and put upon us the armor of light, now in the time of this mortal life, in which thy Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility, that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious majesty to judge both the quick and the dead, we may rise to life immortal…” BCP 90

If I do nothing else this Advent, I shall endeavor to repeat this prayer daily, to forge the words into my heart and mind, my memory a golden home for these words, food for my soul.

For today we begin to think about judgment, law, and love. Paul writes to the church in Rome in the Epistle (Romans 13:8+) about how the law leads to love. “We owe no man any thing, but to love one another: for he that loveth another hath fulfilled the law.” But there is more; it is not that simple. He goes on to list the commandments, for the commandments are the law of love, commandments against adultery, killing, stealing, lying, and coveting, all which harm others. How do we measure up against this standard given to Moses on Mt. Sinai, burned into tablets of stone?

And so we have our instructions for Advent: to examine, confess, and repent; to clean out our hearts.

Paul writes one of his most beautiful exhortations to his church in Rome, making his words appealing and encouraging, even beautiful:

“Now it is high time to awake out of sleep: for now is our salvation nearer than when we  believed. The night is far spent, the day is at hand: let us therefore cast off the works of darkness, and let us put on the armour of light. Let us walk honestly, as in the day; not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and wantonness, not in strife and envying. But put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make not provision for the flesh, to fulfil the lusts thereof.”

It startled me anew, “put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ.” Christ becomes a garment worn over our souls. It is a garment of light and love, and also law. Christ himself is our armour of light. We wear him.

We don the holy, the sacred, the eternal. And by wearing Christ, a holy light of discernment, we see our way in the darkness of this world. He hallows us, covering our body and soul, protecting us from harm, from the dark.

I will admit, confess, that chambering and wantonness, rioting and drunkenness, are not my usual temptations. But I see them all around me, in our towns, in our schools, in our elections, in our lack of law and order, in the everyday shootings and lootings and chaos nearby. But strife and envying are always hovering, tempting, for it is easy to desire to be someone else, or covet what they have, to be ungrateful for blessings given, for life itself. So I admit to these sins that encourage the darkness and dispel the light, making it more difficult to “walk honestly.”

Tradition appoints four themes, the “last four things,” to be addressed on the four Sundays in Advent: Death, Judgment, Heaven, and Hell, themes of darkness and light. For we all shall die and we all shall face judgment and our final destination. Considering these last things leads us to our means of salvation, Christ himself, born in Bethlehem. Considering these events, we cast our hope on this Child in the manger, the One who will carry us into eternity.

For if we don Jesus Christ, if we cover our souls with his armor of law and love, we need not fear the encroaching dark. We can see the morning light through the trees, as we follow the path through the forest, through the woods of the Cross, and to the river that runs by the throne of God.

In Angel Mountain I was glad to describe some of these events in our own end-times, our own lives on this earth. I was glad to echo the words of Paul and the words of the Prayer Book’s Collect for the First Sunday in Advent. I was glad to glimpse the glowing dawn of his glorious majesty when He judges us, when we rise to the life immortal.

Come, Lord Jesus, come.

Today is called “Stir Up” Sunday because of the prayer at the beginning of the liturgy, which “collects” us together as one body in Christ, hence called the Collect for the Day:

Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people; that they, plenteously bringing forth the fruit of good works, may by thee be plenteously rewarded; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer, 1928, 225)

And we, the good people of St. Joseph’s Chapel in Berkeley, were stirred up, our wills swirling in a golden bowl, stirred by the Holy Spirit, melding into one single will, to glorify God on this bright Sunday morning.

Our deacon celebrated a deacon’s Mass, since our vicar was away. It was good to see Deacon Longsworth, who attended seminary here at St. Joseph’s and returned today, soon to be ordained to the priesthood. This happens from time to time – former students return to visit, to preach, to pray – and we enjoy the reunions, lovely gifts from God suddenly in our midst.

And so, as my will was being stirred up, I wondered if my creativity was too, if soon I would seek a moment to begin my next novel. Many of its parts are living in my brain, camped out, I guess, waiting. Some bits and pieces have left, probably ready to move on.

After Mass I stepped downstairs into the basement of our student residence next door to work for a few minutes weeding the books stored there for the last forty years. It is a project slowly taking shape. The process of the weeding, pulling dusty volumes from dustier racks, considering the title on the spine, and placing in an appropriate pile, has focused my fragmented mind upon books, libraries, and words.

Someone on the political left stated recently that words were a sign of white supremacy. Peggy Noonan in the Wall Street Journal (November 13/14, 2021, “Democrats Need to Face Down the Woke”) recently quoted George Packer in his Atlantic article, “When the Culture War Comes for the Kids”:

“In New York City’s public schools, which Mr. Packer’s children attended, the battleground was ‘identity.’ Grade-school ‘affinity groups’ were formed ‘to discuss issues based on identity – race, sexuality, disability.’ The city was spending millions in ‘antibias’ training for school employees. One slide was titled ‘White Supremacy Culture’ and included such traits as ‘individualism,’ ‘objectivity’ and ‘worship of the written word.’ “

I’ve read that also under the white supremacy label is discipline, responsibility, and achievement. Other identity groups, the Left claims, do not think in these terms and thus students shouldn’t be held to these standards.

What really struck me was “worship of the written word.” Hence, books, libraries, and as we have heard, history. For how is history transmitted from generation to generation? Through words, written and oral. Will these folk let us keep oral words? According to cancel culture, speech is forbidden as well.

And so as I examined the dusty, faded, spines of these many volumes published over the last fifty+ years, I recalled that such basements full of books might indeed be banned one day. Would libraries be burned down? It was thought a remarkable and fortunate turn of fortune that the great Alexandrian library in North Africa was spared the looting and pillaging of the vandals in the raids of the fifth century. Libraries – of word, print, or mind – exist to share ideas and times, plottings and plannings between people and cultures and ages. Libraries attempt to ensure that we do not make the same mistake as our ancestors did, that we learn from history and not repeat the failures.

Indeed, these very words, my thoughts worked out on a keyboard, appearing on a screen, on a sunny Sunday afternoon after being stirred up in a sacred chapel a block from UC Berkeley, would be banned too.

So another idea for a theme in my novel emerged. Deep within the caves of Angel Mountain is the last, lost library. Far down, below ground, and farther down than that… where hidden wellsprings bubble and moisture seeps and drips through sandstone… are the last books of Man, his lost words, forgotten and abandoned and left in the dark during the terrible terror, the silencing of speech, writings, communications. It is a time when we no longer sing the song of humanity to one another, to the next generation. We no longer tell stories to children about life, death, and love. One character recalls church bells, though, and sings the tones as she goes to sleep. Another recalls poetry. Another recalls a mother’s lullaby. But these are deep interior memories, silenced by the great levelling, the equalizing of humanity into a gray stream of sameness.

At some point in the past, one character recalls, the lights went out, electricity fizzled, plugs were pulled, and the world went dark. Along with modern conveniences that depended upon the power grid, the internet shut down, for batteries needed feeding. It didn’t take long, he remembers, only a few weeks, maybe less. Fuel was banned to save the planet from climate change and cars sat still and silent where they were abandoned, or kept as museum pieces. The last-minute hording was ugly, with many dying in the crush of stampedes. Yet the hording didn’t last forever either, just extended the pain.

Another character recalls that at one time they heard news of other places and events. The news came through screens and phones, generally propelled by those in power in Washington using carefully scripted words. But now, with the silence mandate, which criminalized writing and most other communication as racist and therefore hate speech, and therefore a sign of domestic terrorism, news was broadcast once a month by a town crier, who read a carefully scripted and word-barren paper he unrolled in the village square. Some wondered if he was human, and perhaps he wasn’t, for he sounded like a digital recording from a bygone age. Others listened, but learned little about human affairs in other places.

It was said in hushed voices that at one time art was celebrated – pictures and stories invented by the imagination – but that the mind needed words and images to dream, and the desire to tell or draw or listen slowly disappeared.

But another whispered that Angel Mountain had a secret deep within, far below in the bowels of the earth. It was a secret library. They spoke the word library as if it wereZ precious gold, a gemstone of rare brilliance. What was a library, the young asked. Ah, the elders replied, you wouldn’t believe it if you saw it. What is believe, the young asked. Ah, the elders sighed, something from long ago, something bright and beautiful and full of joy…

And so I pulled books from the metal racks in the basement of St. Joseph’s student residence, Morse House. There were classic paperback novels, yellowing and brown. There were theological tomes from various decades. There were cataloging how-to books, that listed order and numbers and classifications that all librarians abided by. There were large glossy books of places and things with color photographs and few words that delighted the eye and fed dreams of travel. There were hymnals and prayer books and sheet music in binders.

And many others…

And so the libraries of my mind, those collections of images and words and ideas, loves and hates and dreams, were reorganized as I studied the spines and chose the destination of each book. The books and the words of my mind, those phrases and feelings that formed foundations of my life, joined and separated in a kind of dance, or a painting, or a poem.

The stirring up had stirred me up indeed. And I was grateful, even joyful, that I was a part of Our Lord’s faithful people plenteously bringing forth the fruit of good works, at least trying to bring forth such fruit. The fruit, I knew, lived in our words, in our hearts and minds. The fruit was ripe for the picking.

As I said farewell for the week to the others gathered around a table in the Clergy House in the back, I was grateful for this morning, this last Sunday of the Church Year. I look forward to next Sunday, our New Year’s Day, the First Sunday in Advent. For having been stirred up, I look anew to the season of Advent, the coming of Our Lord as a babe in a cave in the hills outside Bethlehem, surrounded by farm animals, adored by his mother, earthly father, shepherds, angels, and wise men. We shall sing of this with words that resound through the centuries. We shall tell the greatest story of all, the story of Christmas.